Chapter 18
The rebels place a halo of iron on Taliesin’s head, two narrow bands braided into a circlet.
A second, identical circlet follows for me before they uncoil the ropes cinched around my waist. A single spike bites into my forehead, and a trickle of blood runs down my cheek.
The stinging pain is brief, only lasting a moment before fading into a dull throb that beats in time with my heart.
An extra precaution, I suspect, to dull our magic. I’ve heard removing this type of band is impossible…though Taliesin did wear another once. How did he remove it? Could it he do it again now?
I glance his way. He looks murderous, but he doesn’t protest as they take his sword and search him for weapons.
They find my dagger strapped beneath his trouser leg and the other half of the scroll—the thing he must have been hiding in his trunk—tucked into his back waistband.
Again, they do the same to me, but I carry nothing.
At last, we are herded onto the path that winds toward the mainland.
My mind is already unravelling into a chaos of thought.
They want me to turn against the Order, to steal the one thing they need to heal our broken world.
Worse, I suspect they intend for me to kill whoever guards it.
Me or Taliesin. Together, we would be an unstoppable force of nature—if they let us out of these iron bands.
I shudder, searching for his silver hair through the line of bodies between us.
The leader ordered the rebels to keep us separated until we reached the mainland.
Said we’d be easier to control that way.
She’s probably right, though there’s little I can do but imagine shoving them all off this cliff and watching the sea devour them.
And even that fantasy ends quickly. A blade would find my throat before I cleared the first few.
No, my only option is to play along until I find an opportunity to escape. Until I can run.
The path widens as the sun charts its path through the sky.
The further we walk, the worse my feet ache, until my boots feel like they’re lined with shards of glass.
When we stop, it’s only long enough for a few to duck around the bend to relieve themselves, while the rest of us ration sips of water to soothe our parched throats.
And then we’re off again, moving with such intention that I wonder whether they might not be running toward the mainland but from some presence hot on our trail.
I risk a glance over my shoulder to check, but the burly man assigned to me shoves my back before I can glimpse anything more than stone, windswept grass, and a worried-looking Bryn scuttling just far enough behind us that no one has spotted her yet.
Thin clouds streak the sky, revealing no sign of the firebird.
But she left before the rebels set their trap. She’s likely safe back in her nest.
My hands clench. Stars, I hope she’s safe.
Shades of pink stain the horizon as we cross the narrow bridge to the mainland.
I expect relief as the ridge falls behind us, but something tugs at the back of my mind.
I slow while the rebels gather around the leader, and my gaze finds the distant tower.
From here, it’s little more than a darker smudge against the luminous sky, but I swear I can trace its outline, like someone has sketched it there in pencil.
“Swynwraig,” the rebel leader says from behind me.
I turn slowly, as though I’m being torn free of the ridge, and a strip of black cloth is waved in my face.
I frown. “What’s this?”
“Seeing as we don’t trust you yet, you and the exile will wear these until we reach our command post. We’d rather you didn’t learn the way, at least not until we can be sure you won’t betray us.” A slow smile curls her lips. “That won’t be a problem, will it?”
They don’t wait for an answer. The leader draws the cloth over my head, and the ridge, the tower, and the fading light all vanish into shadow.
An hour passes. Maybe two. I try to count the minutes, but my thoughts turn heavy and slow beneath the rough cloth cinched tight against my face.
My breathing grows shallow, the air warm and stale, until at last the groan of an opening gate signals our arrival…
somewhere. Their command post, perhaps, something I wasn’t aware they had.
The rebels are clearly far more organized than the Order believes.
The cloth is ripped away. Cool, wind-bitten air dances over my skin, cutting through the damp heat sticking to me.
I blink and drag my gaze across the ruins.
Scorched walls jut from the earth like a row of chipped teeth.
Torches flare in rebel hands, their flames leaping across the ground to illuminate a clearing bordered by earth-toned huts with thatched roofs that blend in with the surrounding land.
And the dark, dangerous glint in Taliesin Wynn’s eyes.
Our gazes lock across the clearing.
He’s spoken so few words during the journey here.
I know, because I’ve been listening for the tenor of his voice, wondering if he might be waiting for the right moment to strike.
Even in the short time I’ve been near him, I’m certain he’s not the kind of man to surrender so easily.
There’s a reason he’s allowed them to take him.
I’m certain of it. And the way he’s looking at me now, his eyes full of storms, only confirms my suspicions.
My heart pounds. I can only hope I’m not caught in the fallout.
The rebel leader opens the door to the nearest hut and waves us inside.
The guard at my back pushes me forward first, forcing me to stumble across the threshold.
A small room comes into focus, lit by a small brazier in its center.
The guard forces me into one of two chairs and winds a rope tight around my middle.
A moment later, Taliesin is pushed into the other seat and bound in the same way.
He stares straight ahead, his jaw tight.
When the guard leans in and murmurs something low to him, Taliesin gives no sign he’s heard a word.
“I know you’re angry,” the leader says, stepping around to face him, “but we can’t take risks when it comes to you. Surely you can understand that.”
Still, Taliesin doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even blink.
She sighs and turns her attention on me instead. “You, too. We know what you can do.”
“If you want our help,” I say, giving her a thin smile, “this isn’t the way to ask. I don’t tend to cooperate with people who chain me.”
The corner of Taliesin’s lip twitches.
“Then we’ll make this brief.” The leader begins to pace between our chairs, her hand resting on the hilt of the sword at her hip.
But even as she speaks, her knuckles have gone white.
“The Order has been lying to you, Angharad Morgan. They don’t want the return of the stars so that magic can flow freely again. They never have.”
I grit my teeth, my gaze drawn to Taliesin again. He gives me an almost imperceptible nod, like he’s agreeing with the rebel, whose name we still don’t know.
But of course he is. He fed me the same story.
“Magic comes from the stars,” I say, turning my attention back to her. “And if there’s one thing I know about the Order, it’s that they want more of it, not less. It serves the kingdom. It strengthens the army. Without it—”
“You’re so close, it almost pains me to tell you the rest.” She stops in front of me, squaring her shoulders like Taliesin isn’t even in the room.
In the cave, I thought they’d come for him.
Now I’m not so sure. Her focus is entirely on me.
“The Order wants the scrolls. They want the stars. But not for the reasons you believe. If they get their hands on it, they’ll restore them only to use them.
They’ll rip the magic straight out and funnel it into their talismans, so they can bend more power to their own goals.
For the army and the warriors and the king. Not for the people.”
A long beat passes in stunning silence. I swallow beneath her sharp gaze, my heartbeat loud in my ears.
Part of me instinctually believes her, but another part recoils, screams that she’s wrong.
That the Order would never bind the magic of the stars.
That they serve the kingdom, always placing its people above all else.
But doubt prickles at the back of my mind, the same insistent itch I felt when I first heard the Ballad’s name.
I don’t want her to be right. It would unravel everything I’ve ever known. But…hasn’t it unravelled already? My world split the moment I saw Taliesin Wynn in the back of the Twin Talons Inn, ale in hand, his eyes meeting mine with what I now realize was recognition.
In that instant, something within me whispered that everything was about to change. I just never imagined how completely it would.
My hands clench in my lap. “How can we be sure this isn’t a theory? Assumptions with no basis in truth? I understand you hate the Order and the control they hold over the kingdom’s citizens. I even get why you hate them. But that doesn’t make them the monsters you claim them to be.”
She beckons someone forward. “We have proof.”
A tall elven man with blond hair cascading to his waist steps forward, a scroll clasped in his hand. He bows to the leader. “Penderyn Rhian.”
The back of my neck prickles. Penderyn. Head of birds. It’s an old term, one I haven’t heard in…I can’t even remember how long, or how I know it at all. The implication hits anyway. Are the rebels in league with the firebirds?
My stomach knots. Is that how they found us?
“Thank you, Gethin.” Rhian takes the scroll and presses it into my hands.
“Have a look,” she says. “You might recognize the handwriting.”